THE PHONE SCREAMED in his ear. He clambered up out of a restless sleep. Where's the damned clock? What the fuck…? What time is it? Focusing now on the lit dial, trying to read it: a few minutes after two in the middle of the night. You gotta be kidding. He grabbed the phone, fumbling it out of the cradle.
"Yeah?" his voice raspberried.
"How they hangin', bro?" Jody's voice was grinning, having fun with this back-from-the-grave moment.
Shane bolted upright in bed, his heart immediately slamming with adrenaline, banging unevenly, a four-barrel engine with a bad cam. He was gripping the receiver hard, his knuckles turning white, his palm instantly slick on the instrument. "Jody? Is this Jody?"
"Back from the Great Department in the Sky. Thought you and I needed a little night music," his term for the late-night talks they had during sleepovers as kids.
Shane was wide awake in less than thirty seconds; sleep was quickly broomed away like corner cobwebs. He swung his feet off the bed. Got them down onto the floor for stability.
"Why?… Why?… Why did you do it? Why did you make us think you were dead? I cried, man. It really fucked me up."
"Hey, it's just police work, Salsa. I'm doin' a job." Jody had nicknames for everyone; nicknames were a "Jody" thing. He'd called Shane "Salsa" or "Hot Sauce" almost from the beginning, because in the old days when they were children, Shane had a short fuse and often couldn't control his temper.
"You're still on the job?" Shane said, trying to pin down that fact. "With the department?"
"Yeah, but you didn't hear it here. I'm working UC."
"You're undercover?" Astounded, still trying to find the edges of it. In his heart he had known that Jody was alive from that first moment he saw him on the freeway last Friday, but hearing his voice was different-spooky, surreal.
"It's a big laydown, so a few of my old road dogs and me been bustin' moves and doin' doors on some serious assholes." "Doin' doors"
was an old term referring to cops stealing from drug houses but more recently had come to mean any activity where cops cheated to get busts. Shane took a deep breath to settle down. It was unbelievable… Jody on the phone, in the middle of the night, talking trash, sounding wired. "We found out there are a few moles in the Clerical Division who would've given us away if we got regular paychecks. This is a big hustle, Salsa. Lots of chips on the table. We needed to work the bust from the inside."
"What bust?"
"Hey, come on… You know better than to ask that."
"Jody… I… Look, Jody, I have to see you."
"Ain't gonna happen. Can't happen. Reason I called is, I know you'll pull on this thread till you unravel the whole sweater, and that could fuck me up. You gotta chill, brother. You gotta leave this behind. Forget you saw me. Don't 'plex up on me, Salsa."
"Plex up"-a prison term meaning to get complex. Why is he using con lingo?
"Does Lauren know?" Shane asked.
"No, I cut a deal with my CO… Told 'em she wasn't solid… She'd give us up. I needed to get out of that. It took a while, and I had to pull some juice downtown, but in the end, the department went along. She thinks I'm dead." But he said all of this slowly, as if considering it a word at a time. Shane figured it could mean anything.
"She's not doing well, Jody. She's gained weight. She's become an afternoon drinker."
"Hey, Salsa, shit happens. I made a mistake with her. I thought it was love, but it was just my dick. She's okay. She's got my police pension. I got a medical pass on the suicide. They said it was caused by psychiatric stress, so it protects my death benefits. 'At's the best I can do. After this job, I'm gating out… Gonna get small, shake off the drag line."
More prison lingo. "Gating out" was release from custody. "Drag lines" were prisoner restraints, linking cons together.
"So, Shane… I called 'cause I didn't want you to mess me up. A lot of people could get fucked unless you keep this to yourself. I hadda eat some shit to get my people to stay frosty. A few guys wanted to send you some GBH." More prison talk: "grievous bodily harm."
"Jody, is this sanctioned?" he heard himself ask. But he knew it didn't matter how Jody answered. He knew he couldn't trust anything he said.
"I'm not working off my badge, Hot Sauce. I'm just working off the books. Do yourself a favor and forget you saw me. Forget we were both on the 405. It didn't happen. Do that, and everything stays right side up."
"And if I don't?"
"Don't even suggest it, man. I Jodyized this deal! Make me a hero with my troops. I told 'em you'd see it my way-our way. I told 'em you were good people. And, Salsa, don't tell anybody about this call. With your current problems, those squints in the Glass House are gonna black-flag what's left of your career."
"Where's Carl Medwick?" Shane asked suddenly.
"How the fuck should I know. Home in bed, I guess."
"He disappeared the day before I saw you."
"Now you're acting like a complete asshole. If you keep this up, it won't come out good."
"So you're threatening me now?" Shane said, his voice turning cold with anger and betrayal.
"I'm just passing along information. Use it, or don't."
Then there was a long, tension-filled pause. Shane could hear Jody breathing. Both of them were waiting to see what would happen next. Finally, it was Jody who broke the silence.
"So, that's all I wanted to tell you. Miss you, man. Sorry we can't lay in together."
"Lay in"-prison lingo for a meeting.
"I'll see ya, Salsa. You're still my catcher, like always. Dig this pitch outta the dirt for me. Go Pirates!" And then he was gone.
Shane sat on the corner of his bed for a long time, stunned. The receiver finally started beeping in his hand. He dropped the handset back in the cradle, got up, walked out, and sat in one of the white metal chairs in the backyard. He felt the cool ocean breeze drying the sweat on his face. He stared at the moonlit canals, trying to sort out what Jody had told him.
Is it possible? he wondered. Could the LAPD be working a deep sting so dangerous and sensitive that they would fake the deaths of Jody and several other officers? Would they take them off the booksy so some criminal snitch working in the Clerical Division wouldn't spot a paycheck coming through and sell the information to a crime syndicate? Was it possible that these guys would leave their wives and that the department would arrange for their families to be paid with death-benefit checks and then just let them disappear? It was almost too bizarre to contemplate. Except for one thing…
Shane was pretty sure the new chief wouldn't have anything to do with it. The Day-Glo Dago might talk out of the side of his mouth and wear a New York pinky ring, but his reputation for honesty was well known.
Burleigh Brewer, the old chief, whom Shane had caught with his hand in the money jar, was a rule bender, and rule benders always hired people who go along and don't ask questions-people like Deputy Chief Mayweather. Only Mayweather was dead-a suicide after Shane broke him on the Naval Yard case. Chief Brewer was still alive; however, he was on trial and wasn't going to admit to putting an illegal unit into deep cover, paying their wives with death checks. Even if Brewer was in on it, which he may not have been, and even if Shane could prove it, Brewer would blame it on Mayweather or some other cop who wasn't around to argue. The old chief wouldn't say anything that would adversely affect his case in court. That door was closed. Even so, it was possible that the corruption that spawned the Naval Yard disaster could have also given rise to this.
He sat there, his mind chewing it over. What should he do? How should he play it?
Tomorrow afternoon Alexa was getting the Medal of Valor. Maybe after the celebration dinner, after he had taken Buddy back to the airport, maybe then he could ask her advice. Alexa had political savvy without being a politician. She'd know what to do.
Shane had no evidence of the call from Jody. He'd get AT amp;T to print out his phone records, but he knew Jody would have used a public booth-a number that was untraceable.
Don't plex up on me, Salsa, his old friend had said.
"Well, fuck you, Jody," Shane whispered into the night wind, the anger and betrayal so intense that acid reflux burned in his throat. If you didn't love me enough to say good-bye… If you could let me carry your coffin and cry into your ashes, if you didn't trust me or Lauren, the people who loved you, then bring on the GBH, buddy 'Cause I'm gonna find out what the hell you're up to…
He was still sitting in the metal chair, churning and making plans, when the sun came up Sunday morning.